


these are the echoes of stories never told

by Jeanne



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 15:56:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeanne/pseuds/Jeanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With every story he tells, he gives her another piece of himself. Post-Journey's End.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these are the echoes of stories never told

**Author's Note:**

> Title in part taken from _Melodies of Life_, English lyrics by Alexander O. Smith.

It's his Journal of Possible Things, he jokes, and as he jots down the words to his once endless and ongoing story, he reads them aloud to her. He can't give her all of time and space, not anymore, but he can give her this.

And so he does.

He tells her of Gallifrey and its burnt orange skies and silver-leafed trees. Of his days at the Academy, of the Master and the Rani, of his theft of the TARDIS, his beautiful, beautiful ship that he's lost forever. He tells her of Susan and Barbara and Ian, Jamie and Zoe, Sarah Jane, Romana, Tegan, Turlough, Ace and everyone he's ever traveled with. Everyone he's met, every world he's saved. Everyone and everything he's lost. He tells her all of this, everything he wanted to tell her before but never could, and she listens to every word and carefully stores them away in the corner of her mind she's always reserved for him.

They don't do this every night, no, but often enough that it becomes a habit. Him, leaning against the table as he writes, her, curled up on the couch and letting his voice wash over her as he talks late into the night and early into the morning. When he stops and finds himself unable to continue, she stands, takes his hand, and leads him quietly to bed. She holds him as they drift off to sleep, a bulwark against the nightmares the memories bring.

In the day, they have their adventures, live their lives and save the world. It's then, in the bright light of day, that she'll tell him her story, little anecdotes of the years they were separated sprinkled between running and laughing and loving each other. But this, this is reserved for the quiet of night, when they're alone and the silence caused by the absence of the gentle hum of the TARDIS, once so regular and taken so easily for granted, starts to get too loud. He tells her his story, word by word and night by night, and she is his silent witness to the life he's lived and the wonders he's seen.

He describes everything his mind lands upon, that genius, genius mind of his still as quick as ever, and though he's always talked before, on and on and on, she marvels at how he's finally speaking, saying words of meaning instead of filling empty space as he's been wont to do. The scenes he paints with the rise and fall of his voice blossom in her mind, of his world, his universe once so wide and now so infinitesimally small, and her heart aches for everything he's lost. It's at times like these when he will look up from his writing and turn to give her a small smile, and her heart will calm once more.

From time to time, he'll stop and sketch a picture: a companion here, a different regeneration there, a landscape if he's in a particular mood, and she itches to buy him a proper sketchbook and supplies but she doesn't. That would go beyond what they share on these nights. Instead, she curls up tighter and clenches her fist to stop herself from reaching out to him until it's time.

And then one night, in the future that comes too soon, he stops at the edge of the precipice that is the basement of Henrik's Department Store. She smiles at him because she knows this part of the story, can recite every moment of it from the pages of her heart, and he holds her eyes with his before plunging on. He tells her of their meeting, of Jack and Bad Wolf, Sarah Jane again, Mickey and Madame de Pompadour. The Cybermen and the Daleks and their first time at Bad Wolf Bay. They smile at the memory, able to do so now from the distance of years though it's still tinged with the bittersweet.

He tells her of Martha, brave and marvelous, who walked the world for him. Joan, who John Smith loved. The Master once more, and losing the Time Lords all over again. She cries for him then, the tears that, even in this half-human body, he won't allow himself to shed again. He doesn't say a word as she cries, just looks at her with those deep, sad eyes of his and waits for her tears to dry before continuing on. When they do, he tells her of Donna and she cries all over again. Donna, who refused him the first time and regretted the loss. Donna, so brilliant and fantastic and so _Donna_ that it aches to think of what must have happened to her, of everything she must have lost after. This time, he cries with her. This time, she interrupts his story for the first and only time to tell her own, of Donna in the parallel world, so brave and determined even without having ever met him. He smiles through the tears and he thanks her and he goes on.

Before they know it, they're at Bad Wolf Bay again. She knows how this story ends, and so, as she gets up to go to his side, he surprises her by breaking their tradition. He closes his journal (and, oh, she's lost count of how many books he's filled with his story) and reaches out to draw her into his arms, into his lap. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and she shivers at his breath ghosting against her skin.

He takes a deep breath and then he whispers words into her ears, words meant only for her. She smiles and she laughs and if she cries a bit neither mentions it. Instead, they get up and, hand in hand, go to bed.

And that's the end of his story, except it isn't. Out there, in the TARDIS, he travels, endlessly spinning through the vortex of time and space. The last of the Time Lords who isn't, but that isn't his story to tell, not anymore. Here, in this house they've made their own, he lies in bed with her curled beside him, her head lying above his one human heart. But he doesn't sleep, not yet, no. He's composing a new story in his head, but this one isn't his.

It's theirs.


End file.
